


Falling

by Melthalion (kemelios)



Category: Smoke Signals (1998)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-01
Updated: 2011-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-16 00:59:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kemelios/pseuds/Melthalion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arnold Joseph haunts Victor until he lets himself go. Thomas tells a story and gives good cuddles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling

"Wake up, boy."

The vivid dreams of my father began shortly after Thomas and I returned to the Rez with my father's ashes in a dilapidated coffee can. Before catching that Greyhound to Phoenix to retrieve what was left of the man who had abandoned my mother and me when I was twelve, I had rarely remembered the recycled drivel my subconscious coughed up during R.E.M sleep. Visions, Thomas would say. I'm sure his dreams are just that.

His large meaty hand landed a blow on my shoulder and I felt his chubby fingers wrinkling the front of my cotton t-shirt, lifting me bodily from the hard mattress on the floor where I've always slept as far back as I can remember (except for on those not infrequent weekend nights I spent as a child, huddled in the closet watching the grownups roll around in my blankets together, the smell of cheap beer permeating the room. Cheap sex and cheap beer, the two most influential factors of my childhood until the day my mother decided to quit drinking).

I can't move in these dreams. I don't know why exactly, only that it’s just a given, accepted. I didn't even try to dodge the glancing blow upside my head or avoid Arnold Joseph's yeasty breath against my cheek.

"I said, wake up!" his voice was a roar then, and I remembered Thomas's quirky imitation of my father's yell, 'what the hell are you doing here?' My dad took Thomas out for the grand slam breakfast at Denny's. I didn't think I'd be as lucky. Grand slam, yes. Breakfast, no.

"Victor, come on boy," he cajoled, one hand brushing my long hair from my eyes, the other loosening its grip on my shirt. "I know you want to be a good boy, Victor." He rolled off of the mattress then and I heard his heavy footfalls as he paced alongside my bed. I attempted to open an eyelid, feeling a bit funny about playing possum at my age although I’ve always been a master at it. Pretending to sleep was a necessary skill when I was a boy, one I cultivated with true stubbornness.

I was in the fourth grade when Julie Dancingbear pulled me behind the custodian's shed at school for a quick game of show-me-yours-I'll-show-you-mine. She lifted her little skirt and let me pull down her white panties, revealing her slit, hairless and plain. I remember thinking, as I pulled out my tiny boy's cock, that her body just looked unfinished to me like something vital was missing. It's funny the memories that pop up in the middle of a dream.

"Victor!" My name boomed through my sleep-ridden brain and suddenly I found that my eyes were open. Dreams are strange that way in their suddenness. "Good. I know you're awake, boy. About time you quit pretending. I saw you with him, Victor. Don’t deny it."

His eyes, dark and fathomless, bored into my own as he stood in his navy t-shirt and jeans looking exactly as he had that summer day in 1986 when he pulled me sobbing from the back of his pickup and handed me over to my mother's keeping. But the enormous expanse of his waxy skin, once rosy from drink and too much flab, reflected with a dusky pallor the yellow glow of the hallway light. Veins, blue and creepy, skittered up his thick forearms and ran like wiring across the fleshy cheeks and chin of his face. His weighty palm felt cold against my brow.

"Son," I heard him whisper and watched in horror as those pale bloodless lips descended toward my forehead. I wanted to scream. I struggled fruitlessly to move.

"Thomas!" my mental scream had me jerking up against the sweaty sheet, chill air causing my dream-damp skin to goosebump. My heart dribbled against the wall of my ribs as I struggled to catch my breath, listening for the squeak of hinges on my mother's door, afraid I had shouted aloud.

* * *

“Hey, Victor,”

The tendons in my right arm twitched as the sound of his light winsome voice floated down from above the court. The basketball bounced off the rim and back down to me. I tucked my hair behind my ears, raising my head to meet my sometime companion’s twinkling brown eyes.

“What do you want Thomas?”

“I was just thinking about your dad. About you shooting basketballs that night at his trailer in Phoenix. And Suzy. She was a good shot, wasn’t she, Victor?”

“Yeah, she was, Thomas. So what?”

“But not as good as your dad. Your dad was the best shot, Victor. He had magic hands. He’d just take that ball in his hands and wish it right into the hoop.”

“He did no such thing, Thomas.”

“He did. Did I ever tell you about that time I was watching the Coeur D’laine team play baseball against that team from Montana?” Thomas paused for a minute with big hopeful eyes, just looking at me. I had a litany against hearing stories about my dad from Thomas too often, it went something like, ‘You’ve told me this story a thousand times, Thomas.’ After last night though I found myself curious to hear what my friend had to say about my dear deceased dad. Seeing my resigned shrug he gave me a sweet grin and continued the story.

“Those men from Montana, the Wildcats they were called, they were the all-time champions in baseball. But they hadn’t ever played baseball against your dad. Your dad was out in the field, just catching balls. Catching fly balls from above. Catching grounders from below. Their batters would swing the bat and the ball would just fly straight into your dad’s baseball mitt. Your dad could catch anything. He had magic hands.”

“Sure he could, Thomas.” But it was true and I knew it. Everybody knew it. The infant Thomas Builds-the-Fire plummeting to the ground from his parent’s pyre of a house, snatched from certain death by the magic hands of Arnold Joseph. Every Indian on the Rez knew that tale by heart. Thomas’s grandmother had nursed him on that very story. My dad could catch almost anything, except mistakes before he made them. I thought about telling Thomas about my dream. The kid was a regular shaman sometimes, would probably tell me a dozen possible meanings for it, but I wasn’t ready to tell him that his was the name in my throat as I woke up in a sweaty terror.

“Why are you still wearing your hair in pigtails, Thomas?” I said roughly to change the subject. “I thought I explained about Indian men and hair.”

“My grandmother likes it this way, Victor. She says it looks fine.” Thomas got that wrinkle between his eyes like he always did when trying to think of something to say. “Victor, she says that long hair on men is too much trouble. If she doesn’t braid it, it gets terrible tangles. She doesn’t like to brush it for me.”

“Maybe you should cut it,” I said just to be spiteful. Thomas has hair twice as long as mine is now, thick and wavy. Hair that most women envied, disguised with braids. I wanted to pull them out and twist my fingers into those silky strands.

He looked shocked that I had given voice to such a heretical idea, but then I watched as his full lips quirked on one side into a sort of smile. “Oh no, Victor,” he whispered, letting a little sly humor into his words, “I’m not in mourning, now am I?”

* * *

I pulled the truck into the first available space, grateful for the flashing neon vacancy sign we’d glimpsed from the highway. I heard Thomas sigh with relief. Although I had done all the driving since Phoenix, he'd felt duty bound to remain awake with me since the car stereo was broken. The guy looked like he was about to crash.

“Stay here, Thomas, and I’ll get us a room.” We only had a few dollars left of Thomas’s bank money, but Suzy had given me a little cash before we left. I guess she thought she might sell some of my father’s stuff and make a little profit. More power to her, I thought. Thomas nodded sleepily, looking about ten years old with his hair loose around his face and his glasses off.

Coming back with a key, I got in and woke Thomas with a little nudge on the shoulder as I started the engine and moved the truck to the other side of the motel. We slid out of the doors and shouldered our backpacks before navigating the metal stairwell to our room. I opened the door to the faint but lingering odor of stale cigarettes and fabric softener. One bed in the center of the small orange-carpeted room, a telephone, a TV with local channels only, a dresser and a closet with a few theft-proof hangers. I threw my backpack on the floor and headed to the bathroom with a groan.

“I’m taking a shower, Thomas, and then I want you to take one as well. You stink.”

“Hey,” his protest was weakened with a big yawn, “I’m too tired to shower, Victor.”

“You’re sleeping with me, Thomas, and I’m not smelling you all night. You’ll shower and change your clothes.”

“I don’t have any clean clothes, Victor.”

I let the hot shower water blast any dirty thoughts right out of my mind.

* * *

I inherited strong nimble piano fingers from my mother, Arlene. I laid back on my mattress feeling the floor through a few worn spots under my shoulders and my ass, studying my hands in the dim light from the hallway. Long fingers, straight nails, a few little paper cuts on my right index finger and a scrape on one of my knuckles. I pulled a little dead skin off of a callus on my palm I got from lifting free weights occasionally at the local gym. Strong hands, yes, capable even, but not the magic hands of Arnold Joseph.

I snorted to myself and shook my head to clear it. Thomas had really done a number on me, that’s for sure. I was beginning to buy into this magic fingers business. I’d waited for my dad to catch me my entire life and he never had. I couldn’t afford to start thinking that he ever would.

* * *

“Thomas?”

“Yes, Victor?” He’d been overly quiet all morning since we’d hurriedly left the motel for a very good reason but I needed to clear the air between us. Quiet for Thomas is completely unnatural. Anything but non-stop chatter is unnatural for Thomas, really.

“Why did you want to go to Phoenix with me?” I said.

I thought I knew the answer already. It was no big secret how Thomas felt about me. There are no mysteries on a reservation the size of ours. To most people his infatuation for me was merely another aspect of his overall strangeness. ‘Victor’s shadow’ they called him on good days, ‘Victor’s girlfriend’ on bad ones.

“I thought you might need catching, Victor.”

The innuendo in that usually innocent voice made me bite my lip and close my eyes for a moment. Heat raced through my body and I felt the blush on my face. I glanced over to the passenger’s side of the truck. Thomas’s brown eyes gleamed with mysterious depths like very deep and dark pools of oil. I had a flashback of those eyes wet over my face as I took his mouth with mine.

“We will never speak of this again, Thomas.”

We drove the next six hours to the Rez in silence.

* * *

 _“Victor!” his urgent whisper jolted me from sleep with a start. “Victor,” his arm held me down, his hand on my shoulder, shaking me awake, “you’re dreaming, Victor. You were dreaming about your dad.”_

 _I opened my eyes and took in my surroundings: a dresser, a telephone, TV, a few hangers. Thomas lying naked next to me in the double bed, my fingers twisting in his long silky hair. He leaned on one elbow over me looking into my eyes with a concerned expression. My heart pounded._

 _“I don’t remember it,” I said when I could, “I remember falling…” I shut my eyes against the dream and let myself voice my relief in the night-black room. “I’m glad you’re here, beautiful Thomas,” my hushed voice deafening in the quiet._

 _“Victor’s shadow,” his voice sounded husky as I pulled him on top of me and pressed my mouth to his and devoured him like I was starving. And I was. His mouth opened above mine and I slid my tongue inside, tasting him, my arms pulling him tighter against my chest. He sucked on my tongue, eating me until I swore I was halfway down his throat._

 _“Oh god, Victor,” I heard his groan against my ear. His skin burnt my fingers as I slid them down his tender spine to cup his ass, my mouth moving along his slender neck. He tasted like hotdogs and beer. He felt like leather, wood, and homeruns. I couldn’t get enough._

 _“Suck me, Thomas,” I moaned, pushing his head down between my legs, “get me hard so I can fuck you.”_

 _He began to lick my cock, alternating long tongue strokes up the sides with heavy suction on the top until I was steel-hard and dying to pound into his tight little asshole._

 _“Come up here.” I positioned his knees on either side of my face and pulled his ass down so I could tease his tan pucker with my mouth, get him wet for my cock. It sounds gross to me now, but at the time I had never been more turned on then I was smelling his hairy crack, licking his hole, burying my face in his ass. He was moaning and humping my face as I licked a finger and pushed it inside him. He let out a little groan at that, his hole squeezed my finger like a vise. I couldn’t imagine putting my dick in there without any lubricant._

 _“Thomas, you got any lotion?”_

 _“Uh, lotion, yes, I think there’s a travel size in the bathroom…”_

 _“Get it.”_

 _When he came back from the bathroom, he climbed onto the bed on his hands and knees and I fell on him in a frenzy. The lotion eased the way for my fingers and then my cock as I shoved into him, slamming him forward with each push, my greasy hand pumping his dick in time with my thrusts into his ass. I didn’t believe in the white man’s heaven, but with each stroke I felt the weight of the possibility._

 _“Victor!” Thomas cried as my cock rubbed his prostate during one particular hard thrust, “you told me to get a woman, Victor, but I don’t want a woman. I want you, Victor. I want you!”_

 _He jerked forward into my hand with a wail. I caught his creamy juice as it spit from his dick, felt his ass clench around me, saw meteors falling before my eyes and then pleasure and pleasure…_

I woke up alone on my mattress and surveyed my sticky sheets with a groan. My father’s voice caught me by surprise.

“Dreaming of me wasn’t working, eh Victor? Had to give you dreams of that night with Thomas. You sure looked like you enjoyed yourself.”

“Why are you doing this?” I wanted to scream. My father’s ghost, all chubby capable hands and whiteface, stood at the foot of the mattress, hands clasped above his protruding belly. And as if that weren’t enough to drive me crazy, he’d given me dreams of the very night I wanted most to forget if I ever could. My memory of that night was so vivid, I could almost smell Thomas on my sheets, feel his phantom body arching beneath me.

“Son, don’t deny yourself a chance at happiness in life. I’m here to make sure you don’t make the same mistakes that I did.”

“You mean, like not coming home?”

“Home isn’t always a place, Victor. You’ve fallen for him. There’s nothing wrong with falling.”

I swallowed hard and peered into my once-beloved father’s eyes. They glittered with regret. “I’m afraid,” I whispered, closing my eyelids against tears.

“Believe me, son. You don’t need catching.”

I opened my eyes to an empty room.

* * *

"Victor, wait a minute now," my mother's voice caught me going out the door. I turned to face her worried eyes. Her hair seemed more gray, her forehead more wrinkled than they were the last time I'd taken a moment to study her features. In her fifties, my mother was still a beauty.

"Yes, ma?"

"You look so tired, Victor. Have you been sleeping okay?" I'm sure all the new gray hairs are my fault.

I thought about telling her of my nightmares about her late ex-husband, my father. If anyone could understand being haunted by Arnold Joseph it would be my mother. But I didn't. I just shook my head at her.

"I'll be sleeping better tonight, ma, I swear," I flashed her my most coyote-smile and slid out of the door and to the street.

* * *

“Hey, Victor,” his voice was as cheery as ever coming from the yard as I walked by his grandmother’s house. “What are you doing over here?” His shaman eyes lit up as I stopped and began heading his way.

“Falling,” I answered, letting a smile slide onto my face for the first time in weeks as I strode through the grass to stand in front of him. Looking down into his beautiful curious face, I felt a thousand pounds fall from me. I slipped the ties from his braids and began to unweave them with my fingers as I bent to kiss his mouth.


End file.
